


BBCSH 'Wall'  Part 4/6  [NC-17]

by tigersilver



Series: 'Wall' [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver





	BBCSH 'Wall'  Part 4/6  [NC-17]

Cats' cradle. Yes, there will be hawt smex...eventually. Let's see how I manage to lead us there, shall we?

  


IV. 

At ten days, Sherlock’s up and about the flat, hopping. Has been, with aid of John’s old cane. 

John, with the corner of his mouth tucked in to hide a peeping smile, tells him he looks exactly like a clipped stork. Or perhaps a barmy heron, stalking frogs. But in any case a silly elongated bird who sways about on one pin and consumes amphibians and beetles. Sherlock, who’s found it bracing indeed _not_ to be summarily cut off at the knees by his best mate (who has now daily examined his now dusty lust-filthy pants tacked to the plaster and said nothing—nothing—about it) decides it’s more than time to explore, hobbled or no.  He scrabbles and clambers up his wall to that end and perches rather breathlessly upon the top, which he discovers is crusty-scabby like day-old bread and quite decidedly spongy beneath, like a wafer-thin slice of that same loaf. The wall, that is. It wobbles precariously beneath him as he walks it, sighting all about him for territories beyond. He looks first to John Watson, of course. Of course.

It’s a possibly prophetic fall, the swooping, dizzy despair that nearly takes him tumbling down as he surveys the other side, where people dwell. John—he sees  this all at once, as a great revelation—owns a wall as well, just as much as Sherlock does.

It’s quite strong in appearance, sturdy and terribly, horribly business-like, no frills or crenellations, but then John doesn’t seem to require them.  It’s constructed of mild sandstone, no mortar, and there’s no gaps nor breaks nor gates anywhere along the rounded, curving expanse of it. 

Sherlock is monumentally cast down. He could perhaps kick one wall to pieces—his, obviously, as it’s sadly deteriorated—but how could he ever manage to break through two? 

It’s not for nothing he’s a practical man beneath all the furbelows of visible, in-one’s-face, flaming genius: despair is eminently unhelpful and provides him nothing good or employable. It’s not to the purpose to feel sad. He deletes it instantly and gimps determinedly to the familiar divan to think. 

Thoughts lead to deeds. Retiring to his bedroom after John leaves for a biscuit-kibbutz with Mrs Hudson, he digs up and examines an old picture of himself Mycroft handed him ages ago, one from university but he looks much the same even now, and then cellotapes it firmly above his headboard, close by the map of Brighton and not far from where John and Harry are caught in time together, laughing with a piss-ugly jersey between them. Next, he runs a length of brilliantly scarlet yarn from Moriarity’s icon (a Westwood suit, last spring season, doubtless bespoke and there’s a new line of inquiry; brilliant) across the entire perilous length of the room and affixes it directly into the centre of his own matriculation portrait. With cool deliberation the skein is thence unfurled onward to the photo of John. _And_ his sister, but she’s not the one peering out from under the yarn-end that all but obscures John’s decade-old grin. 

There. He can’t be much clearer than that, can he? 

…Can he? 

  



End file.
